


When We Were Pirates

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Captivity, Cock Warming, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Fingering, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, Restraints, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27689066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He tilts your head side to side, appraising. His fingers are warm, calloused, the tips digging into your cheeks just a bit too firmly for comfort. And he likes what he sees: you, disoriented. A little afraid. Your pupils dilating at his touch, betraying you. His voice is low and sweet, promising the darkest, most vicious pleasures. “I’ll enjoy ruining you, pet.“You are captured by pirates, and Walker is their captain.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	When We Were Pirates

Your senses filter in one at a time. The smell of salt air. The sound of waves. A gentle rocking motion beneath you. The heavy weight of manacles on your wrists. 

Wait. Manacles? Your eyes fly open and _he’s_ there, crouching down to lift your chin gently with one big, salt-rough hand. His eyes are deep blue and burning with infernal fire. “There you are, my pretty little thing. Wondered when you’d decide to join us. My name is Walker, but you can call me _Sir._ ”

He tilts your head side to side, appraising. His fingers are warm, calloused, the tips digging into your cheeks just a bit too firmly for comfort. And he likes what he sees: you, disoriented. A little afraid. Your pupils dilating at his touch, betraying you. His voice is low and sweet, promising the darkest, most _vicious_ pleasures. “I’ll enjoy ruining you, pet. By the time I’m done, your sweet little cunt will cry out to be fucked every time you see me.” And louder, so his men can hear: “This one’s mine.” 

And to stake his claim he has you right there, cutting your clothes free, your nipples pebbling in the briny air for him to tweak between his calloused fingers; gooseflesh rises on your thighs as he kicks your ankles apart with a booted foot, as he plunges two fingers cruelly inside you. And _oh_ how the crew murmurs as they watch, how they spit their jealousy at Captain Walker’s claim. Your cheeks burn even as you shiver, as you can’t help but rock your hips into his hand because his thumb is on you and _fuck_ that’s good, somehow, the exposed nature of this act heightening all your senses. Walker— _Sir—_ keeps you trapped within his gaze, bound to him by the motion of his hand. 

“ _Eyes on me,_ ” he murmurs as he’s pulling you apart with his thick fingers. Your eyes flick to his and you are caught, dragged under by that bright sea-ice stare. Your thighs are shaking and wet with need, and you can feel orgasm approaching like a wave, inexorable. “There you go, that’s my good girl. Come for me,” and to your shock and horror you _do._ Slickness coats his fingers as you clench around them; when he holds them to the light your need is evident. And he slips them into his mouth to lick them clean, to savor your taste on his tongue. 

“ _Oh_ I am going to enjoy you.”

And with a hand firm on your chains he drags you to his quarters, binds you naked to the bed. It’s unspoken but it’s obvious: you’re there for him to use, however and whenever he sees fit. 

_Days pass in this way. He lengthens your chains so that you can walk about the room, so you can sit at the table to eat with him. No cutlery, he’s not stupid. But he brings you books now and again, and teaches you to read his charts and maps while he strokes a hand over your naked flesh and chuckles, “try again, pet. Focus._ ” 

“Come here.” His voice is a rumble of thunder, his skin golden and striped with deep shadows in the lamplight. When he sits in his chair he is close enough for you to approach, to stand beside his chair and wait. Close enough for him to stroke a finger under the edge of your cuff, to feel where it meets your wrist. “Pretty little thing. I have a task for you.” He opens his flies and draws out his cock; it’s intimidatingly large, thick and veiny. And when he says “sit on it,” it makes you _gasp._

And he laughs, the bastard, when you climb onto his lap and fail to get him inside you. It aches and burns and you could scream with it, but you are good ( _good girl, trying so hard for me, so pretty when you struggle. Your body doesn’t know me yet, but it will)_ and you do your very best. But he is not without mercy. He orders you to stand, and with tears of frustration still drying on your face, he sets to work. 

Walker bends you over the desk, over maps and leather folios, little tchotchkes, detritus of a life at sea. “Hands on the desk, pet, and don’t move. Let’s open you up.” He strokes a big hand down your spine, over the swell of your naked ass. It’s warm but you still shiver at the touch. His thumbs stroke over the globes of your ass and inwards, til he can slip them into your folds, already starting to glisten. “Pet.” His voice is speculative as he considers the wetness there, as he sees the twitch and ripple of muscle. “You liked that, didnt you, trying to get me inside you. Why?” 

“I—“ it’s _mortifying,_ isn’t it, trying to put a name to that feeling, that dark thought that makes you burn with shame, even more than your exposed position does. “I thought about. About you. Forcing me down onto your cock. Being rough. Making it hurt.” Your cheeks are so hot, little fires licking over them and down your neck. 

A hum, thoughtful. “No, sweet thing, never that. You’ll struggle with it, you’ll stretch and stretch until it feels like you’ll burst, but if I hurt you it’ll be with my hands. I take care of my things, pet. And this? This is _mine.”_ And you scream then, because his tongue is lapping at you, it’s _in_ you, as his thumbs peel you open and he licks into the very heart of you. 

And this is good, so good; there’s still that fluttering strangeness of being considered, of being _appraised,_ but his hands and mouth work together on your cunt, thumbs pulling gentle but firm while his tongue works you all over, sending your thoughts in a spiral that empties out into the stretch of his preparations. It’s not something you’d ever even considered a man might do for you. But he seems to enjoy it so much, breathing harshly through his nose as he seemingly tries to devour you. 

He replaces thumbs with fingers, two at first with his tongue lapping between them. Then three, stroking your walls in the gentlest lover’s caress. And when he is satisfied, when three fingers slip and slide through you with ease and you’re _gasping,_ it’s “you’re ready, pet. Up you go.”

And there you are, bracing your hands on his thick thighs. He strokes a hand down your spine on the way to close a hand around his cock, which if anything is even _harder_ after all his preparation, already pearling with precome. He brushes the head through your folds, and with the barest twitch of his hips, he slips inside. It’s thick, so much, and _all at once._ The stretch is tremendous even now, even with all his preparation. He pulls you down by the hips, slow and inescapable, until he is fully seated and you’re gasping with the sheer size of him, with all the sounds you try to hold back but he catches them anyway. “Pet. If I wanted you quiet I’d gag you. Scream and cry all you want, it’ll end the same either way. I’ll fill you up til my come is oozing out around my cock, sweet thing, and you will stay there to warm me until I’m ready to have you again.”

Like this, he’s able to have complete control. With the way your thighs are spread open and draped across his legs, you have no leverage. It’s all you can do just to hold on, clutching at the arm barred across your belly. And you are soaking his thighs, _oh you filthy little thing._ And your cries rise above the other sounds of the room, above the soft scrape of chains and the creak of the ship as it rocks gently in the night. Each _oh_ and _please_ and _I need_ drive him harder; he lifts you with all the force behind his hips and thighs. He buries his face in the side of your neck, teeth a gentle scrape, his free hand coming down to circle fingers around your pearl just right. He draws slickness from where he has you pinned on his cock, groaning at the feel of you stretched so tight around him, _look at that, you take my cock like you were made for it_ and as your cries echo louder he pulls you closer against him, fucks into you harder, until he hears what he wants, hears that

“Please Sir, please. Let me come, I need—“

And he can hear it in your cries, can feel it in the way you ripple around him. Just a little push is all you need, just a little 

“Now.” 

And if you were racing to the finish, he was holding back by his fingernails because as you clench around him he pulls you down somehow _farther_ onto his cock, fucks up so deeply into you it feels as though he’s hitting in your throat; he lets go with a roar and his teeth bite bruise-deep into the side of your neck. It’s enough to drive reason from your mind, to send you drifting in a haze of sensation. Everything falls away except the feel of his last twitching half-thrusts inside you and the softest, almost reverent words whispered into the side of your neck. 

“Oh pet. So good, so perfect. But it isn’t over, sweetheart. Rest a moment, gather your strength. I still have so much I want to do to you tonight.” And in time, when you feel him start to twitch and swell inside you once more, he does. He shows you _everything_.


End file.
